Flames of Vengeance
by LordDerrick
Summary: One lone night, ten years after his imprisonment in Azkaban, Harry Potter ascends to a status higher than he could ever dream. In the darkness of his cell, Harry Potter remembers how they condemned him, how they sent an eleven year old boy to prison for a crime he did not commit. He remembers... and seeks justice. The King has returned. Dark-Harry/multi, Super-Powered.
1. Chapter 1

White 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all, and I make no money from it.**

**A/N: Do not let it be said that I do not listen to my readers. So many people complained about my story, "By the Grace of God," and the direction it took at Chapter Seven that I decided to nix the entire thing and do a rewrite. This story will not be a harem, and it will not involve time travel. Harry will have multiple relationships, but I will not reveal them at this point. I hope you all like this version better.**

**By the Grace of God**

_**Chapter One**_

The silence swam around him mockingly. It was almost as if the dank, lonely cell knew who he was and the crimes he had been charge with committing. But that couldn't be true, could it? Brick and stone do not breathe, do not think. They could not know. Then again, in the wizarding world, things are never as they should be.

Wizarding world… He latched onto that thought. Yes, wizard… That's what he was: a wizard. Even the dark cell could not rob him of that; even after ten years, it could not take away his identity. It could not destroy who he was, not permanently.

For the first time in several years, the wretched, pathetic shell of a man remembered who he was. Cold green eyes peered between locks of matted, slimy black hair and stared out between the bars of his cell deep within the walls of Azkaban prison. Every detail returned to him; every moment of agony and torturous betrayal that had led him to ten years of suffering locked behind bars on an isolated island far from civilization. He remembered…

Quirrell. Quirinus Quirrell. His victim.

Wait, that wasn't right. Not a victim. He was the victim. He hadn't murdered Quirrell. The spirit of the Dark Lord had possessed the professor. He was just defending himself from the Dark Lord's attacks. He hadn't meant to…

But no one believed him. They said that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was dead. Dumbledore tried to argue on his behalf, but they didn't want to believe the truth. Their fear clouded their judgment.

And Snape. Professor Snape.

The potions professor had claimed that Quirrell was only trying to stop anyone from taking the Sorceror's Stone, trying to defend from the very darkness that possessed him. That testimony gave the court all they needed to ignore the truth. It gave them the scapegoat they needed to explain the events… the sacrifice for the common good… the sacrifice in the form of one who had already lost so much… it gave them…

Harry Potter. The Boy-who-lived. Him. Now, he was in Azkaban. His friends had abandoned him. The one place he could have called home, even sanctuary, stolen from him. The world he had so desperately wanted to join had put him away to be forgotten.

But wasn't he their savoir? Didn't they know he stopped the Dark Lord's resurrection? Surely they would return soon. Maybe they would let him go free. Maybe they would release him from their chains.

_No! _He might be captured, but he would not dance for his captors please. He would not beg. Harry Potter never begs, not anymore.

The air in the cell suddenly thinned and dried. Harry Potter stood, bones cracking and creaking as they were extended after years of disuse. Ragged, torn grey robes fell around him, hanging down to his bare feet. His muscles shouldn't work at all. By now, they should be atrophied. He should at least feel pain, discomfort. He felt nothing.

Nothing but rage.

Harry Potter raised his hands in front of his face. The dim twilight that leaked into his cell outlined the silhouette of scabbed, filthy skin. He flexed his fingers. They responded with slow, rhythmic movements that were stiff but effective. He stretched the fingers apart as far they would go then reached deep down inside himself to the shell that he had hidden within the past ten years. With a force of will he shoved that shell to the forefront, against the walls of his mind, and watched as it shattered. As it broke, blue-white lightening flickered between his fingertips, sizzling as it arced under his control.

No, he would not be a prisoner. He had secrets, secrets buried so deep that no one at Hogwarts ever knew, secrets so deep that he had forgotten, secrets that would tear the wizarding world apart.

Harry thrust his hand forward. Surges of lightening exploded from his hands and shattered the cell's barred door in a burst of shrieking metal. He stepped between the smoldering ruins and into the open corridor beyond the ruined door.

* * *

Orian Throathammer was not a normal goblin, at least not by wizard standards. He stood almost seven feet tall and weighed somewhere upwards of 350 hundred pounds. He was built solidly, with little fat and mounds of muscles. Most goblins, at least the ones seen by wizards, were short stumpy characters with the uncanny ability to leer a human into fits of worry and anxiety. Other than their menacing appearances, they were generally harmless.

Orian Throathammer was not harmless. The thick blanket of rippling muscle coupled with the heavy broadsword strapped to his back proved that much. Include that his name had been earned in the triumph of many battles during which puny humans and elves alike were crushed beneath the hammer that was his strength, and it was easy to see why him and his kind stayed out of the limelight of wizarding society. Wizards would be too terrified to let true goblins interact with them. There would be wars, wars his nation could sorely afford.

Once, long ago, the wizards had tried to impose laws on the lesser goblin-folk. The lesser ones had rebelled and fought hard against the wizards to win their freedoms. The bank Gringotts had been created as an attempted peace treaty by the wizards, but the Lords of Goblin-folk refused to accept the wizards' restitution. They demanded a means of permanently securing the lesser goblins from the corrupt wizard government.

After many long days and nights, a contract could not be reached, and the two races descended into war once more, a war that would be remembered differently by each side. In the end, after the blood-shed threatened the survivability of both races, a third party had to intervene, a party led by the greatest of mortals, the half-fae Merlin.

Merlin stormed the goblin stronghold that housed the High Lords and beat them into submission. By goblin law, Merlin, being part fae and therefore one of the Others, had rightfully challenged the High Lords for rule of the Goblin Nation and won. Noble and proud, the goblin lords submitted themselves to the rule of Merlin and his descendents until one could challenge and overthrow him.

After seizing the authority of the Goblin Nation, Merlin schemed his way through the ranks of the magical world and took their government into his own hands. In the end, all families recognized him as the proper ruler of magical Britain, Ireland, and France. None attempted to contest him.

So Merlin built the Chair of the Rightful and crowned himself king in order to stop the wars between the wizarding world and the Goblin Nation. For many years the peace lasted, and many of the archmage's descendents ruled with honor and fairness that rivaled the legendary rulers of both races. For a time, none came against the House of Emrys.

But as with all good things, the peace came to an end. Argois II, great-great-great-grandson of Merlin died in the year 1565, and no heir could be found. The crown dissolved into a disputed title that none of any race could rightfully claim. Before long, after a long string of pitiful rulers, the races began to war again. The wizards tried to force their will on the lesser goblins, and the lesser goblins fought against the control of the wizards.

In the end, it had been him, Orian Throathammer, who had driven the wizards away with the unleashed fury of the goblin hordes. Now, he stood guardian over the Nation, waiting patiently until the goblins would need defending from wizards once more. He would be ready for that time. If need arose, he would be ready to kill and feast on the carcasses of the dead until every last wizard again feared the sight of goblin-kind.

"_Hem… Hem…"_

Orian turned on his heel, his face a mask of emotionless calm. The plate body armor he wore clang as he spun. The black goblin steel remained unscratched despite the centuries of battle it had seen. The fire from the hearth in the small room reflected against the metal, making it glow with the image of burning fire.

The woman in the doorway was skinny. Most humans were skinny by goblin ideals, but she was extremely so, petite was the word humans used. She wore her brunette hair tied into a bun. Thinly rimmed glasses sat on her shapely nose but did not hide the bright surprise in her blue eyes or the admiration she clearly felt for the Goblin Lord. Her high cheekbones and smooth, angular jaw flexed and her full lips turned upwards in a small smile as he acknowledged her, a smile that made even the hardened warrior soften.

It was out of place in the deep caverns of the goblins' world.

She bowed deeply; the pantsuit and blouse she wore moved perfectly with her figure, as if the fabric curved around the shape of her body like water.

"My Lord Orian," she said, her voice ringing in melodiously softness. "I bring news."

Orian nodded and growled. "I hope it was worth you disturbing my day, Miranda. I have little free time."

She bowed again. "I assure you, Dreadlord, I would not have brought this to you under any other circumstances but during that time which is most private."

"Speak your news, girl," he barked, his patience wearing thin. "Humans, even you, bother me when it is this early in the morning."

The woman, Miranda, smiled. She knew better than that. Lord Orian adored her more than he favored most goblins save his mate. "The beacon has been lit, my lord."

Out of all the things Miranda could have said, this was the last thing the Goblin Lord expected. He cleared his voice, unable to speak for just a moment, and said, "Be careful with what you say. Are you sure your human eyes have not misinterpreted what they actually saw?"

Miranda shook her head, still smiling. "No, my lord. Even now the Ways of the King are being lit."

"By whose order?" Orian snapped. Who would dare order such a thing without his approval? If this turned out to be a hoax then thousands of goblins would have to be told that their hopes were in vain, that they still had to hide in their secret cavernous world beneath the surface. The Moridunum Beacon was created by Merlin himself as a way of identifying his power so that none could take his form and steal the throne. If it were lit, it meant that the power of Merlin had been used and one of his blood still lived.

An heir to the throne.

"None, my lord. The Ways are being lit without an original source. They are springing to life as if touched by magic."

Orian frowned. Something inside him twisted and flopped, desperately trying to be released. But dare he release such thoughts? Dare he hope for that which should never have taken place?

"And the beacon?"

Miranda nodded. "Come and see for yourself, my lord."

Normally, Orian would have been angry for the human's brashness at daring to order him, but his anger could not swell right then, not at a moment such as that when the whole of his realm might change, when the whole of the world might changed.

He pushed passed Miranda, who stepped away with a bow, and walked from the door to his chambers into the great opening outside. The caves opened into a mammoth cavern from which hung thousands of stalactites, all glistening with precious metals awaiting to be mined. A river of clear, clean water ran through the center of the cavern, sending echoes of running water bouncing from wall to wall. At the farthest end of the cavern, almost directly across from his door, rose from the ground a formation of crystal shaped into a basin ten times Orian's size. Within in it burned a blue fire.

A magical fire.

"The Moridunum Beacon is lit," he whispered, his voice unable to rise any louder. It did not need to; for, every goblin and orc within the great cavern was already staring in awe at the Beacon. They stared because it could only mean one thing.

From behind him, in a small, but confident voice, Miranda said, "A king has been found."

Orian only nodded. After so long, the House of Emrys had returned.

**A/N: Should I go ahead with the rewrite or is this story dead?  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all, and I make no money from it.**

**A/N: If you have any suggestions, please let me know. Thank you all for your support! I am glad that this story is going in a new direction.**

_"The escape of Harry Potter from Azkaban Prison set in motion a change the wizarding world was not prepared to address. A demon was born."  
_

_-Sir Caven Daniels_

_From Rise of the Darkness_

_**Chapter Two**_

Harry Potter stood in the empty corridor and waited. He did not try to flee as most escaping a prison might. It was not his intention to escape. Escape meant hiding. It meant running. He would not run. The wizarding world would face him. They would face what they had made him into, and they would fear him.

Running was not an option.

_Drip… Drip…_

Water. It was the only noise. Nothing else dared to make a sound. The eerie silence was enough to grate on the nerves of even the most patient, and stoic of people, but Harry acted as though he did not notice it. That was the furthest thing from the truth. He noticed it acutely. He reveled in it.

Silence was his comfort. It was the blanket he wrapped himself in during those moments when the reality of his situation descended on him. Now, it was a reminder that he did not need people to survive. He did not have to rely on others to be there when he fell. He had learned young that even the most well meaning could do him harm. After all, the well meaning had garnered him a place in Azkaban without even realizing their error until too late.

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his mind and body, a draining that reached down to the core of his soul and tugged at the hopelessness hidden there. He smiled. His captors, his retainers, were coming. He raised his hand. They would experience his wrath before any others.

The first dementor glided around the corner, its tattered black robes billowing ominously around it. A groaning welled from within the shadowy hood and traveled the space between it and Harry, striking the Boy-who-lived with the cold chill of its soul-reaping power. Its bony, skeletal hands stretched out to grab him, but Harry was prepared.

White, hot lightening burst from his hands and ploughed into the dementor. Within the magic he poured every ounce of hatred and anger that had been building since he was a small child. Every memory of the Dursleys torturing him and every recollection of hours spent whimpering in a cold Azkaban cell boiled to a frothing roll and charged out of him, unleashing torrents of magical energy stronger than any that had visited Azkaban since its construction.

The bolts arced and bounced across the creature's body. The Dementor threw back what had to be its head and let forth a bloodcurdling scream that spread through the prison. But Harry was not done. He strode forward and grabbed the creature on each shoulder and pulled with every bit of strength he could muster. The Dementor struggled to regain control, to dislodge itself from the beast that grabbed it. Harry would not budge; he would not be denied. His eyes widened in a crazed madness, and he yelled, ripping his vocal cords as they were activated for the first time in almost a decade. It did not matter, because the sound that came from him was not of this world or the next. It existed only in a time and place of his making, of his creation, and from that creation he brought forth his strength.

A great tearing noise, wet and squishing, joined in his screams and in a burst of red-orange flames, Harry Potter ripped apart the Dementor with his bare hands. The Dementor corpse crumbled and faded in the flames.

Two aurors came around the corner just as Harry dropped the now empty Dementor robes. Shocked rippled across their features as they looked from the ruined robes and the Boy-who-lived. A golden light emanated from his skin as he stepped forward in long, quick strides as if neither the incarceration nor the exuberant amount of magic he had just used had affected him in the slightest.

The aurors brandished their wands, signaled for backup, and hurled spells at Harry. Both were advanced in their career. They were highly trained professionals with experience in taking down even the strongest of dark wizards, save for the Dark Lord himself. Both had seen action against inner-circle deatheaters. They could best most in single-handed combat. But this foe was different, and they knew it the second their eyes met his. Even in the heat of the battle they could not focus on his eyes, unable to bare the raging fire within them.

Harry saw the spells before they were coming. He could see the intent as the magic raced down the wand and knew how to stop them. They were not strong enough to stand against him. As the spells left the tips of the wands, he forced his will forward as if projecting it into a solid shield. The spells collided with it, and he felt them tugging at his awareness, trying to overpower the defense he had prepared, but they were weak compared to him. He ripped through the strands of errant magic like they were fireworks sent of by muggle children. They dissipated in showers of flashes that exploded around him as he walked forward.

The aurors panicked and dived. Neither had ever heard of magic like that.

Harry reached forward with his arms as the aurors tried to run and tightened his fist. He pulled the fist back towards him, and the aurors were yanked hard onto their backs. He held out a single hand, and their wands jumped into it.

Both aurors cringed, curled into a ball, and closed their eyes, awaiting the pain of their death, praying that God would protect their families from such a monster as the one before them. However, all they felt as the darkness passed were the prickles of splintered wood as the remains of their wands rained down. After several endless minutes, when they finally dared to look up, Harry Potter was gone.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk at the Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The year was beginning in a month and he still had a great deal to do. Most of his summer had already been devoted to tracing Voldemort through his new hiding spots inside the lush forests of the Indus Valley. Many villagers had reported seeing a terrible spirit roaming the valley and possessing members of their families. More than one villager had been found left for dead, only a dry husk of a corpse remaining as the Dark Lord moved on to its next victim.

Dumbledore sighed and held his head in his hands, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. At 120 years, Dumbledore had seen more than most and dealt with more darkness than almost anyone alive. It was he who had contested Gellert Grindelwald's reign of terror, and it was he who had led the movement to resist the machinations of Lord Voldemort. Now, it was he who was forced again to deal with the rising tide that could only result in the Dark Lord's rebirth.

He knew that Voldemort was looking for something, a way to regain a body, and he knew that Voldemort had to be getting closer. The search had led the Dark Lord from Albania, through most of Eastern Europe, across the deserts of the Middle East, and finally to the birthplace of wizarding magic. Unfortunately, Dumbledore had no idea what, exactly, Voldemort could find there. And that, if anything, was the most terrifying aspect.

The old professor sighed and stroked his long silver beard. Still, it fell on him to ensure that the Dark Lord did not return. It was the only way left to contain Voldemort. If he were to regain his body, then the wizarding world would be facing the unrestricted power of a virtual immortal. The prophecy clearly linked Voldemort with Harry Potter, the boy he had failed to protect. Only Harry could kill him. But now the child rotted in Azkaban, most likely powerless and insane, while Dumbledore sat idly by, unable to act. His hands were tied. The courts had made their decision despite his fervent protests, and he could not oppose the courts. To do so would deny the authority of the government, and that could have any worse effects on the world than Lord Voldemort.

A soft knock on his office door brought him from his musings.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and sat up. He might be old and tired, but people still looked to him. He had to project the image of strength and courage. He was a rallying sign for the wizarding world in a time that was increasingly dark and horrible. It was a darkness that had very little to do with the stain of Lord Voldemort.

"McGonagall, Headmaster," one of the many portraits littering his wall whispered.

Dumbledore smiled and nodded in thanks. "Please, come in, Professor McGonagall."

The door creaked open and a woman with pulled back hair and overly stern eyes entered. She was shaking her head. "One day I will discover how you always know who is on the other side of this door, Albus."

The Headmaster smiled. "I have already told you more than once, my dear professor. It is magic." He stole a quick wink at the portrait that had spoken, but when McGonagall looked up at him, she saw only the ever-present twinkle glistening behind half-moon spectacles and the smile of a very amused old man.

She huffed and sat down. "Yes, yes, so you have said. Now, listen, I have something important to discuss. The Weasley twins-"

"-have my full confidence that they will make wonderful teachers."

McGonagall let out an exasperated sighed. "Albus, I know you have a soft spot for the Weasley family, but you can't expect those two to keep their act together long enough to create an effective learning environment. They will tear down the school brick by brick!"

Dumbledore held up his hand. "Yes, and I think-"

A buzzing from the fireplace interrupted his reply. Green flames spurred to life atop the pit. Almost instantly, a face formed in the flames. "Dumbledore!" the face yelled.

The Headmaster stared back at the excited face of the Minister of Magic and knew his night was about to get a lot busier than addressing the complaints of his dedicated deputy headmistress.

"Yes, Cornelius. I am here with Professor McGonagall. We were just discussing Fred and George Weasley. You know, they are the twin sons of Arthur Weasley, the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

"I don't have time to talk about that, Dumbledore!" Cornelius Fudge blustered. "Were in a crisis, man! There's a massive security breach at Azkaban! The DMLE is getting distress calls left and right!"

Dumbledore's mood turned very somber, very suddenly. He stood and walked over to the fireplace with speed a man his age should not normally possess. "Which prisoner?"

Fudge gulped, his eyes panicked and wide. "Harry Potter!"

* * *

"Lord Orian! This is preposterous!"

Orian Throathammer was tired of the arguing. Ever since the beacon had come to life, goblin lords left and right were trying to argue why they shouldn't swear fealty to the House of Emrys. Orian hated weakness, and he hated cowards. Only a coward would refuse to support their rightful king without cause. He had to set an example.

Orian slapped the yelling goblin across the face. "You fool! Do you not see the fire? The blood of Emrys has been awakened. Your rightful liege lord has been found and you wish to stain this nation with dishonor!"

The goblin reeled back and stumbled under the strength or Orian's blow. The blow hadn't been hard enough to seriously hurt the goblin, but it wounded his pride. Orian had meant for it to. He had also meant for the affronted goblin to act a certain way, so he was not surprised when said goblin pushed off the floor and leapt at him.

Orian stepped to the side only enough to drop his back leg back slightly before he thrust out his arm and caught the goblin in the chest. He twisted his body and countered the momentum of the goblin's leap, bringing him down on the cavern's stone floor with enough force that the stone cracked underneath the goblin's hard body. Orian's arm pinned him against the ground and bore down on his throat.

"Listen well, Urik Handsaw. It is Orian Throathammer who rules this nation, not you!" His mouth opened wide, exposing a jaw full of sharp teeth and four large, menacing fangs from which saliva dripped. "Challenge me again, and I will gut you for the crows. Do you understand?"

Orian knew the answer already. No goblin, especially a goblin lord, would ignore a front such as that. Their honor was challenged by it, and goblins did not agree with their honor being challenged.

"I know that you will die today," Urik spat and tried to stab Orian with a hidden knife produced from somewhere on his heavy armor.

Again, Orian was ready. He jumped back from the knife and bludgeoned Urik's elbow with his fist. There was a loud crack and the arm caved. Urik cried out and tried to roll and stab at Orian again, but the goblin lord was already on his feet. He yanked the broadsword from his back and listened as the singing blade tore through the air and sliced through Urik's neck in a splatter of blood and fluid. The flailing goblin twitched once and lay still as his head rolled away from his body.

Orian stood and held his sword out. Before him, the assembled Goblin Nation, at least what could fit in the cavern and be gathered on such notice, roared in support of their Dreadlord. Swords battered against armor, goblin and orc stomped the ground, and fire burst from the staves of shamans.

"This night," Orian began, his voice a roar even greater than that of the assembled, "will begin the reckoning! This night, we go forth to reclaim our place in the world! We leave these dark tunnels and empty sewers to join our brethren and pledge fealty to our king! This night we render justice and renew our honor!"

His voice reached a crescendo with the last part, and he finished with one last shouted order. "Go now! Retrieve our king!"

The goblins roared again and the assembled ranks began to spread to allow him passage to the front of the army. He raised his sword again and the war horns blew, echoing from wall to wall and shaking the earth. The Orcneas marched to battle once more.

**A/N: Thoughts?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all, and I make no money from it.**

**A/N: The interest in this story is not what I had hoped it would be, but I will answer a few of the more pressing questions/suggestions here. **

**1.) No, I did not steal this story from another author. **

**2.) No, the dementors are not on Harry's side. **

**3.) The black sisters would be an interesting twist. **

**4.) I think this chapter and the next will reveal Harry's knowledge of magic; notice that he is not using spells but direct manipulation of energy. **

**5.) Dumbledore will definitely attempt to manipulate... well, everything.  
**

**6.) While it is not Harry/Harem, keep in mind that Harry is in his early twenty and has not had female companionship. It is natural that he will not jump into a serious relationship immediately. He will have small relationships with several people, but the eventual pairing will be- You didn't think it would be that easy did you?  
**

**7.) The wizarding world will be changed completely. **

_**Chapter Three**_

They did not know him. They had never taken the time to understand him. In truth, he had never let them. He did not want to be known. For that, he had his reasons, reasons so fundamental to his being that they trickled in waves to the very inner-workings of his soul and bound themselves there. Yes, he had reasons.

Humans could not dream to comprehend him. They were narrowed minded and empty. They lacked purpose other than twisted purposes that fulfilled their sickest base desires. He was not controlled by such things. Perhaps, once upon a time, he might have been, but those bindings were now gone.

Bound. He had been bound.

His mind played over that word. Bound. Why had he not known before now? This power he held was so much a part of him, how could he have ignored it for twenty one years? He knew the answer immediately. The thing that had kept it from him had been the greatest of chains. And now he remembered every detail.

Clearly, he saw in his memories an old man towering over him, blue eyes twinkling with mirth and an aura of power pouring off aged, wrinkled skin. He saw the sad smile, the long, slender wand, and the spell that caused magic to leap from it. Then he felt the chains pulling around him; though, they were not chains that one could see from the outside. They pulled from within him; they constricted around his heart. His infant body let out a scream, and suddenly, a part of him disappeared, blinked out as if it never existed.

Again, the old man smiled the sad smile. "I'm sorry, my dear boy, but this is for the best. The wizarding world will never be ready for you. There are much larger destinies that you must fulfill."

Dumbledore. He had done this. All of this was because Dumbledore had taken from him his rightful legacy. He knew the truth now. The bonds were gone, and he knew his heritage; the magic had seen to that. Dumbledore's shadow games would be to no avail.

Harry Potter moved down the now empty corridors of Azkaban. Aurors hid in fear from his wrath while dementors fled from him on sight. He knew that some of his adversaries were preparing a counter-strike to keep him here, but he would not be stopped… Never again. None would ever raise a wand against him and prevail. He would crush his enemies with the iron grip of his will and remake the wizarding world as he saw fit, under his terms. His imprisonment would never be allowed to happen to another.

Beneath his feet, the old world would burn. From the ashes, he would raise his Eden.

Harry moved from floor to floor unopposed. He came to stairwells and took each step carefully, slowly. Azkaban was ancient. Once, it had been a fortress used by one of the darkest wizards to ever exist. From within the towering walls of Azkaban, darkness had once spread the world through the world so thoroughly that it still resonated in the minds of purebloods today, thousands of years later. His eyes were half-closed as he took in the power. He did not see where he was going, but the fortress spoke to him, guiding his feet along a safe path.

A lesser man might have been dominated by the power. He might have been corrupted like the dementors had been so many centuries ago when they had been soldiers under the ancient dark lord. Once, they had been great warriors; now, they were but hungry, mindless wraiths, little more than wisps of what they once were, all because a leader became too power hungry. All because their greed drove them to share in that power.

No, that would not happen to him. He did not crave power. He did not need to. Power was only a scale created by mortals. His understanding went beyond that. He contained the same amount of inherent power others did, but he knew things about magic that those others did not, things that set him leagues above them. He knew that power was relative. It did not matter how much a being had if they did not have the will to use it. And there was one thing Harry Potter had, he had the will, and he lacked the restraints to hold back his will. He did not have a mind full of predetermined notions, notions like those that Dumbledore had forced on his younger self. No, he knew what he was capable of doing.

Anything.

Finally, he reached Azkaban's entrance hall. There, amidst the great black marble columns and dark iron battlements, he encountered their resistance, their last ditch attempt to contain him. This would be the deciding moment. Now, he would determine his future. He looked out at the group of armored aurors standing between him and the door to Azkaban prison, the last prison he would ever enter, and he knew without a doubt that they were little better than the chains they tried to bind him with. Like those chains, they would not last.

Harry Potter held out his hand. The aurors, almost thirty strong, tensed. They raised their wands. One of the aurors at the forefront of the group straightened and called out. "Prisoner Potter, this is your only warning. Lie down on the ground with your hands on your head, or we will use lethal force to subdue you."

Harry tilted his head and studied the wizard. An auror captain, no doubt a veteran of wizarding battles. The scars he wore told Harry that much. "No," Harry replied simply.

The word was said normal, but it came out of Harry and increased in strength to the point that when it reached the aurors, they clutched their hands to their ears reflexively. Harry's fingers curled inward, and the large dark iron doors behind the aurors groaned and twisted before they were wrested from their hinges and brought soaring into the crowd of stunned aurors. The aurors scattered like ants beneath the massive doors, just barely managing to escape as the iron plates crashed to the floor.

Harry stepped forward. He made it half-way to the doorway before the first spell was fired. It crumbled into nothingness before it reached him. Ten followed, then twenty, and then all thirty wizards fired at once. All their spells stopped before they hit him, merely fading into non-existence. Harry continued to walk forward until he reached the doorway. There he stopped, turned, and looked back. He raised a hand once more and the iron doors lifted from the floor, straightened, and folded back in place, magically reattaching to the hinges. The doors closed with a bang that shook the fortress.

* * *

Azkaban Island loomed ahead of them, mist swirling among the jagged rocks surrounding the shore. Only a small opening in the stone formations allowed their boats to pass through to safe, sandy beach, the only small spread of beachhead on the island. It was quiet. Even the sound of the waves of the Northern Sea hitting the rocks was muted. Noise seemed not to exist in the vacuum that was Azkaban.

Sand crunched beneath Dumbledore's boots as he stepped from the boat. The tide pushed water against his heels. He could feel the icy chill even through the thick leather and warming charms. Such was the way of nature. Sometimes, even the most powerful of charms could not escape the natural way of things. The Northern Sea was a force greater than magic, a bastion of Creation's power. Spells could not change that no more than he could beckon away the tides. For all they liked to play at it, wizards were not gods.

After a moment of scanning his surroundings, he realized there was something very wrong with the island.

Five hundred meters from the water, the first of the great walls of Azkaban loomed, one of the four that formed a square perimeter around the fortress. They were sixty meters high and made of runestone and dark iron. Each wall was twenty meters thick with towers spread along them every five hundred meters. The walls stretched two kilometers apiece. Normally, guards in groups of two patrolled the walls, three groups per wall. Then, in the towers, there was another guard stationed on watch and manning a cluster of rotating spotlights. In addition, another six guards were on permanent duty above the only entrance to Azkaban by land, a large dark iron gate that sat in the center of the wall facing the beachheads.

None were at their posts.

"Where are the guards?" Dumbledore asked aloud; though, he did not necessarily expect the other members of his party to answer. He could not see a single guard moving in either the towers or on the walls. The defenses were deserted. Only one protocol would allow for that to happen.

Azkaban had been taken over by the prisoners.

"Dumbledore, what do we do?" the Minister asked from the boat, obviously having come to the same conclusion as Dumbledore.

The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot looked quizzically at the trembling little man. Fudge was wearing a tweed coat and a boiler, not exactly equipped for battle. Four war wizards, aurors specially trained for combat and warfare, surrounded the Minister, looking anxiously at each other. Dumbledore allowed his magic to flare briefly, something he did not often do on purpose, but it seemed his colleagues needed all the encouragement they could get.

He was about to add a spell to his aura that would calm the Minister, but something brushed against his extended senses and brought him reeling to a stop. _What? Impossible!_

Dumbledore held up a hand to stop the procession of war wizards and aurors from unloading as other boats landed. His face full of sudden anxiety, he turned toward the Minister. "Order your men to keep their wands holstered. We cannot engage in battle."

The Minister looked as though Dumbledore had gone mad. "What is wrong with you, man? Azkaban has been taken! Of course we will fight! The whole of the wizarding world may depend on us."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. During the war against Voldemort, Fudge had been known to show steel resolve against threats, so long as he did not have to go into battle himself. The man was quick to order others to war, but he was even quicker to do so without considering the outcome, much the same way he had so enthusiastically supported the arrest and conviction of Harry Potter. Fudge had made sure the media got plenty of photos of him signing the order to place the underage wizard in Azkaban for life.

But now, the Minister's brashness could harm everyone there. What Dumbledore felt on the end of his senses was the very thing he had dared to hope against for the many years he had known of the Evans family. He knew what would happen the very moment James and Lily conceived, one of the main reasons he had quietly tried to sabotage their relationship. For a while, he had dared to believe the threat was handled. Binding Harry's magic should have been more than sufficient to stop the growth from happening. Unfortunately, he had not counted on his young ward being placed in Azkaban. The dementors' ability to drain a wizard's magical core must have drained the bindings.

"We cannot enter here, Minister, without permission. We have no jurisdiction," Dumbledore said, his eyes wide and glistening, not wanting his words to be true. They meant that everything had changed. The status quo had been altered.

Cornelius Fudge was the Minister of Magic, and in magical Britain, one does not simply tell the Minister of Magic what he can or cannot do, especially when it comes to the defense of the realm. His power was outright and entire on that particular matter, even the Wizengamot could not argue a decision he made. He was the Steward of the Crown, the Lord High Minister of Magic, only the sovereign could order him to stand down, and a sovereign had not sat on the throne since the sixteenth century. So when the great Albus Dumbledore attempted to order him to leave a part of his realm in the hand of a mad killer, he did what any other sane Minister of Magic would do: he ignored the crazy old man.

Dumbledore sighed and watched helplessly as the Minister of Magic got out of the boat and ordered Dumbledore to stand aside. The old man bowed his head, folded his hands, and stepped back to allow the contingent of war wizards to ascend the hill that would quite likely take them to their deaths. Even if he had tried, Dumbledore doubted he could have done any more than he already had to thwart the events that would soon take place. The ascension had already began.

The King had returned.

* * *

Orian Throathammer did not wait for the carts that would take them to the summit of the caverns beneath Gringotts. He and his army did not ride in carts like their little cousins. They climbed. They climbed the perilous cavern walls just as generations before them had climbed from their tunnels to enter the bright world above. Once, goblins had been driven underground; once they had been cast down to the pits of the fiery underworld, but that time had now passed. Now, they climbed. They climbed until every member of the goblin-kind, goblin, orc, and every other beast of their breed, stood in the grand openings that would lead them into the halls of Gringotts Bank, their portal to the wizarding world.

An old, stumpy, teetering goblin was waiting for them. Unlike his taller, stronger cousins, he was not clad in battle armor and did not carry a weapon. He wore a suit, a suit similar to those of the humans he served. He frowned at Orian Throathammer.

"This is mad, Dreadlord!" the small goblin squeaked, practically jumping up and down. He set his jaw and proclaimed, "I won't let you just come in here and change all we have worked for these years! We are finally being accepted by the wizards! Great strides have been made in human-goblin relations. If you storm in here with a battle host, you'll set us back five hundred years!"

This goblin reminded Orian why he did not spend much time associating with lesser goblins. They were cowards. They had no stomach for battle. Sure, they could be ruthless and cutthroat when the odds were in their favor, but war required the courage to defy even the most stacked odds. Now was the time for such courage. Now was the time to dream and hope. Now was the time to fight for all they believed in and reclaim their spot in the world.

The growl that next escaped Orian's throat was echoed by several of the battle host behind him. He mouth leered, flashing his fangs for the little goblin to see. "We do not wait for humans to accept us." And with that, he shoved the little goblin aside and threw open the doors to the bank lobby. "It is time we remind them."

**A/N: Not nearly as many people are reading this as the first time. Is it even worth continuing?  
**


	4. Chapter 4

White 6

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all, and I make no money from it.**

**A/N: I feel as though I should enter a note here. I love the Harry Potter universe. It has been with me since childhood and walked with me through the stages of life. Now, in adulthood, I share it with my family. My wife, like me, adores everything Harry Potter. That is why I decided to write this fan fiction. After read hundreds of pieces of dribble and crap, I was inspired to try my own hand at creating a lasting impression on the fandom that surrounds the marvelous creations of J.K. Rowling. I hope, in this endeavor, I am somewhat succeeding. After all, literature, in all its forms, is essential to the preservation of humanity.**

**Now, to answer the questions of pairings… I will at the end.**

**Chapter Four**

"_One could say that I knew Harry Potter intimately. One would be more accurate in saying that I knew him like a person knows an enemy. Both statements would be correct; for, only Harry Potter could have been both my dearest friend and my most hated enemy. Only someone who embodies both the light and the dark of our world can achieve that kind of balance."_

-The Rightful King – _Lord Hadrian Conners_

Harry felt them coming before they even reached the gate. He could sense their magic. He could feel their emotions stirring them, their anxiety and fear churning below the surface, feeding the power that they harnessed in their spells. These were not regular wizards; he knew that. These were the elite. They had trained for moments like this, practiced to take down the strongest of threats in both Britain and abroad. They would not hesitate to kill him. There would be no warning, no pause, no reflection. They would kill him and be done with it, ready to move to the next job.

They were true killers.

He smiled. Those kinds of men were the kinds the Ministry of Magic, with its false pretenses of nobility, did not want the public to know about. They were the secret stashes, the hidden weapons, the war wizards… the Unspeakables.

The Unspeakables in question didn't wait for the gate to be open. Unlike most wizards, they were not afraid of physical exertion. Instead of blasting through the gate, they silently scaled the wall in the hopes of surprising their prey. Harry had to give them credit. The idea wasn't a bad one; albeit, they could have done better at concealing themselves once they were over the wall. Still, it would have worked with most wizards. The magical community as a whole had an overwhelming disdain for anything non-magical and never would have expected such a tactic.

Unfortunately, Harry Potter wasn't most wizards. In fact, one could barely call him a person, much less a wizard. Most people did not feel the raw, unbridled hatred he felt. Most people did not contain a storm of fury that threatened to unleash itself on the world and destroy it. Most people only thought they knew real rage.

The Unspeakables had no idea.

He did not see them as much as he felt them assemble at different points around him. Their first spells were exactly as Harry predicted, precise and deadly; they had no room to make mistakes.

Neither did Harry.

He stepped forward several spaces. For a moment, the world slowed down, and he was able to clear the intersection where the spells met. The spells sailed harmlessly past him. Moving much faster than they were prepared for, he reached out towards one of the unspeakables just as the others trained their wands on him and pulled with his fingers. The unspeakable soared to him. He stepped aside to avoid another volley of spells, leaving the unspeakable in his wake. The spells shattered the protective enchantments the war wizard wore and ripped his body into tiny shreds.

Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust. That's how they wanted to play?

Fine.

Harry whirled on his heel and used the innate magic in the air to lift him several meters off the ground. He landed behind two of the war wizards and grabbed the back of their necks with magically enhanced hands. He squeezed. They didn't have time to struggle before bone crunched under the grip of his fingers and they went limp. Quickly, he bent down, grabbed their wands, and began to hurl spells that had not been seen in generations, spells he should not have known existed, spells that leapt into his mind whenever he needed something accomplished.

The stationed war wizards scattered under the barrage of his deadly magic. Explosions riveted around the courtyard. Screams called from one side near the gate as one wizard's right arm and shoulder were blown apart. Another unspeakable simply fell down dead, unable to raise a shield that could block Harry's magic.

Still, Harry did not stop. The war wizards immediately tried to rally, but Harry threw down the wands and thrust his arms out to either side. The air around him grew still, almost as if the molecules that made up the gases in the air suddenly froze into solids.

"_Attend me!_" he cried.

The frozen air vibrated, and a wave of orange flames burst from every part of Harry's body and pushed outward in a cyclone. The air blazed as the hungry fire sought every war wizard whom dared to get close to him. Moments later and the screams of the dying and the smell of burning flesh rose into the sky, Harry's tribute to the gods who had left him in this place to suffer and die.

The Boy-who-lived clenched his hands and brought them down to his side. In one sweep, he had given the wizarding world back the pain they had thrust upon, the pain he had earned in defending their lives from Lord Voldemort. Then, he raised his hands into the air and called down the storms.

Black and grey clouds billowed overhead. Torrents of rain began to fall and plaster the ground with sudden floods of water. Lightening arced then raced to the fortress and its walls, striking along the stone and iron, tearing apart chunks of structure while forcing entire sections of the supposedly impregnable fortress walls to fall into crumbled ruins. The winds swam around Harry, matching his strength with his fury, and buffeting away all who still dared to approach. Harry was lifted from the ground and carried several meters into the sky.

From there he could see the two men waiting on the outside of the gate. They had led the war wizards to their deaths just as easily as they had sent him to Azkaban prison. Dumbledore and Fudge.

Dumbledore and Fudge…

* * *

Dumbledore could barely keep standing as the storm raged, breaking through the silent night that had surrounded Azkaban Island until that moment. The Headmaster took a step back and braced himself against the strength of the elements being unleashed. More than once he had to fling spells at falling stone or iron that had been blasted loose by the lightning strikes. This was going worse than he thought. He could feel the Unspeakables dying, but every time he tried to intervene or to link with Harry's mind, the younger man's power shoved against his own like a battering him, leaving the Headmaster staggering and breathless.

He looked over at Fudge. The man was practically unconscious with fear. Dumbledore grabbed the Minister by the collar and started down the beach back to the boats.

"W-what are you d-doing?" the Minister managed to stutter as cold bits of icy rain plunged down atop of them.

"We are escaping," Dumbledore told him.

"W-what about the o-others? Y-you c-can't j-just leave them h-here," the Minister said through clinched teeth.

Dumbledore shook his head. "There is nothing you nor I can do for them now. The day is lost, Minister," he told the man. All the while, his stomach churned with guilt at what he was about to do, but it was true. They could not help the Unspeakables. The best they could do was return to the mainland and prepare. They had to warn everyone.

"They will die, man!" Fudge yelled, suddenly defiant, but it only lasted a moment as an answering explosion of thunder cowered him once more.

Dumbledore shot him a stern gaze. "And we will die here with them if we do not leave!" It wasn't about him dying. He did not fear death. He feared what his death would mean for others. He lived and acted for the good of the wizarding world. Didn't Fudge understand how important he was? How important his plans were for the entire wizarding world? Only he could stop the threat that had become to exist in Harry Potter, not to even mention the inevitable return of Lord Voldemort!

"You're Albus Dumbledore. Surely, you can fight a bunch of prisoners!"

Dumbledore shook his head as he hauled the Minister into a boat before following himself. "There is only one man in there fighting to get out."

"One prisoner?" Fudge asked disbelievingly. "You're leaving because of one prisoner?"

"No," he sighed. "The man in there trying to get out is no more a prisoner than you are, Minister. I told you not to send him to Azkaban. I told you there would be repercussions."

The Minister's face drained of all its color as he remembered signing away Harry Potter's life in vivid detail. "That's not possible! He's just a boy! He didn't even complete his first year at Hogwarts! A boy couldn't do this." The last part came out more as a desperate, whispered plea.

Dumbledore hung his head. "Perhaps you would be right in that assessment had I been allowed to keep Harry at Hogwarts. But you took away my ability to watch him and locked him in the last place he should have ever been." He grabbed Fudge by the shoulders and stared him in the eyes. "Cornelius, you never listen! I told you this would happen! Harry Potter is the Heir of House Emyrs by his mother Lily Evans!"

Fudge's mouth gaped open. He closed it, then opened it a fish, then repeated once again in a good impression of a fish. "Impossible."

Dumbledore shook his head. "More possible than you know. The boy you locked away is dead. He died when you closed him in that cell. Along with him died every binding I had put in place to keep the power of House Emyrs from awakening within him. No doubt, that power has now manifested, and Harry has ascended, probably with full knowledge of who he is and where to go for help. Merlin would have seen to it that his heirs had the necessary knowledge despite the circumstances. More likely than not, he knows and has claimed his heritage. He is Harry, the Lord Merlin, by the Grace of God, King of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, King of the Franks, Right Duke of Normandy, First Lord of the Moridunum, and Prince of Corinth."

"My God," was all Fudge could say as a terrified Headmaster sped back to the mainland, letting twenty wizards sacrifice themselves for the wizarding world.

* * *

Harry watched them leave and felt the first bit of satisfaction he had felt in ten years. Both men were afraid. They knew they could not stand against him, and they ran away. He wanted them to feel that way. They should be afraid, because soon, he would be coming for them to. Soon, the entire world would quake beneath his wrath as he tore it down brick by brick.

Harry allowed the magic around him to dispel and floated back down to the ground. The war wizards were mostly incapacitated. Many were dead. He had not wanted to kill them. They had done nothing but follow orders, but such was the price of war. There would be causalities. There always were. He knew that. People did not like change, and now that he knew who he was, he would bring about change unlike the wizarding world had ever seen.

He closed his eyes and extended his senses much in the same way Dumbledore had done when he had tried to invade Harry's mind. Of course, where the old man had failed, Harry did not. Suddenly, in a rush of emotion, he felt both the living and the dead surrounding him. Silently, he mourned for the dead. The living, though some could barely be called living, he summoned to himself. Their unconscious bodies floated through the air and rested at his feet. Thirteen of twenty, he counted.

Seven were dead because of the ambitions of a politician and the manipulations of an old man.

Harry sighed and knelt in the center of the bodies. He touched the ground with his hands, closed his eyes, and forced as much of his power as he could into the ground, directing it toward each of the bodies. He shuddered as, for the first time that night, his weary, malnourished body felt its reserves drained. He did not stop. Using every bit of energy he possessed, he pushed, pouring healing magics into the Unspeakables, going to their very cores to find the deepest of injuries. In that moment, he gave everything he had to their ragged, torn bodies and through his life essence fostered their own.

A blue-white glow surrounded the thirteen bodies. All the injuries they had, even old scars of battles long past, faded away and were replaced by whole, unblemished skin. No trace of injury could be found anywhere, and as one, they opened their eyes and sat up.

The thirteen wizards were confused. The last thing they had seen was the raging fiery inferno of the wizard they had been told to kill. Now, they stared silently at the same wizard, none of them moving or speaking. He had healed them.

Wordlessly, as is the way of the Unspeakables, they communicated. They watched the man who they had believed to be a monster rise to his feet and stand, his body weak and drained from the power he had just used to give them back their lives. Then, they looked around at the corpses of their fallen colleagues. Without having to say a single word, they each knew what the other was thinking; for, the power Harry had poured into them carried with it a signature. It allowed them to understand what they had been sent to do and who they had been sent to kill. As a group, they all shifted their bodies until they were one knee, heads bowed. They knew who their target was.

A weakened Harry Potter only barely registered the wizards kneeling around him. The magical that had been sustaining him the past few hours was ebbing away quickly. He needed help, and these Unspeakables could help. He swooned on his feet and just barely managed to say before he passed out, "Take me to Gringotts."

**A/N: No… no, I won't. In fact, why don't you tell me your preference? **


	5. Chapter 5

White 8

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all. I am but a mortal quaking before the immortality of her idea.**

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews. I have tried to make this a little longer than the rest. Hopefully, the chapters will continue to get even longer. Now, to answer a few questions:**

**For the thousandth time, I did not steal this story. It is a rewrite of my story By the Grace of God.**

**The issues with how he will meet the girl of his pairing will be revealed very soon.**

**Ron and Hermione will play a large part. They will not be bashed. I cannot say the same for Dumbledore.**

**As for Minister Fudge, he did not get elected for no reason. So often fanfictions forget that he is the elected leader of an entire nation. He might be terrible at battle and war, but he does have the occasional redeeming quality.**

**Sirius is…**

**Continue with your questions.**

**Chapter Five**

"_That is when I knew that the Dark Lord wasn't going to come back, at least not by that title. After that moment in time, no other but Harry Potter will ever hold a rightful claim to that title."_

_Lord Draco Malfoy, __Enticing the Dragon_

Wizards and witches screamed.

Orian Throathammer smiled at the humans' reactions as the battle host swarmed the wizarding bank's halls. His bloodlust flared. These pathetic excuses for sentient beings had no place in his world, especially in a place of perceived dominance over a race as mighty as the Goblin Nation. They were cowards who ran at the first site of battle.

The Great Doors of Gringotts, heavy iron and inlaid with gold and silver, shut tightly closed at the first scream. It was a security failsafe to prevent deatheaters or other terrorist organizations from attempting to raid the bank. The doors were supposed to be able to resist all but the strongest of magic. Unless several individuals with abilities such as those of Albus Dumbledore came about and tried to bring the doors down, the attacks would be thwarted. Now, they acted as a prison for several screaming humans.

As it should be.

The humans pushed themselves against the door. They banged their fists on the door, tugged at it, and pushed on it. It did not budge. This just made them panic more. Apparently, these humans forgot that they were of a higher order of animal than a mouse; for, if they had remembered, one of them might have thought of trying spells. The door was designed to keep spells out, not keep them in.

Of course, he had expected no better of them. In the hierarchy of the true magical world, humans were very low. Wizards were allowed to play their games because of the fact they were considered neither intelligent nor particularly powerful. Only a few actually merited that the larger community pay them head, and these few were so incredibly powerful that the magical community had been irrevocably changed on more than one occasion just by their existence. Merlin had been one such individual. He had beaten the entire Goblin Nation into a lasting submission that was now tied to the Nation's very honor. The pandering idiot known as the "Dark Lord" had not been one such individual. His only accomplishment had been to sway a few werewolves and giants, an act to which the larger magical community had taken offense.

In the wizarding world, these two individuals were considered the opposing spectrums of greatness. They believed Merlin was the pillar of light and the very essence of magic, and for that, he was great. They believed that Voldemort was dark and evil, and for that, he was great. Wizards were only half right. They had no clue of what darkness truly was, and that was their greatest flaw.

Sheep were just that: sheep.

Orian growled and drew the broadsword from his back. The blade filled him with the strength of his ancestors, the force of the patriarchs. He was their heir, their legacy. Within his veins ran the power of Gorog Thunderclaw, Stone of the Black Mountains. No goblin could come against him and live, and these humans, these wizards, with their lofty ideas of superiority over all magical kind, would not succeed where others had failed. He stepped forward and thrust the sword at the floor tip first. A wave of blue magic erupted from the impact and the stone parted beneath the weapon.

"Enough!" His voice raced through the hall, weaving amongst the floor and walls, vibrating into the very atoms that made up the white marble.

Wizards and goblins alike stopped what they were doing, momentarily shaken by the power of Orian's presence. In truth, there was very little magic behind it. He just knew how to intimidate. A leader learned such things if he stayed in power long, and Orian Throathammer had been in power for a long time, longer than most. His ancestors had ruled for millennia, but he neared a single millennium on his own and showed no signs of weakening. Most goblins would have aged and withered, but Orian did not. He would not die by sickness or wrinkles. He would die by steel or truesilver. He would die by sword or axe. He would die taking the warrior who brought him down with him. That was the only death Orian Throathammer would permit himself to have. Anything less would not be honorable. As such, he projected a very specific image, one that had not been properly expressed in the human tongue until recently. By the look of fear on the wizards' faces as they stared up at him, they were very acutely aware of that image and how to describe it:

Don't fuck with me.

Orian snarled and walked towards the door. The humans flinched; none dared to challenge him. _Weaklings. _"Where is the Ministry of Magic?" Orian balked. "Do none come to defend you? Does not a battle host of true goblins march on your city?" He drew his sword over his head, crowed a blood cry of his people, and…

And a hand touched his shoulder. It was small and feminine and human. It stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Great lord, we aren't here to start a war. We are here to retrieve the King. He will lead us on the proper path," his aide said in a firm voice devoid of even the slightest wariness, the wariness that any other being would have been wise to use when speaking with Orian Throathammer.

The large goblin growled and spun, ready to strike down the human who dared to question him, but like always, the very sight of Miranda quelled his anger. In the back of his mind, there was a small part that realized this was some kind of magic working against him. He should have been angry, furious even. He should have fought against any type of wizarding magic that tried to control him, but he could not. He knew exactly what the magic was; for, he had allowed it to be cast on himself. It was a protection provided by the last First Lord of Moridunum for Miranda's family. Orian could have only hurt Miranda if she threatened his life. Even for all her abilities, and some were very potent, that was a nearly impossible occurrence.

Few could threaten the Hammer of the Orcs.

"You would have me spare those who would imprison and demean us? What kind of goblin would I be if I let such an affront to our honor stand?" he asked; though, he already saw her logic. He was no longer a young warrior prone to giving into the haze of battle, the lust of the kill. He had wisdom, hard earned wisdom.

Miranda smiled softly, a tender, placating smile. "One who listens to reason and understanding. You are not trying to kill every wizard alive. That would make things very difficult for the King. You are trying to forge a new path, one along which goblins rise to their rightful place. Do not sink to the level of these," she said, pointing at the thirty or so witches and wizards.

At her words, one of the wizards appeared to gain some of his sense back, at least the part of him that engaged his courage. Unfortunately, the part of his brain that kept him from saying stupid things did not follow. If it had, the tall, platinum blonde haired wizard with a distinct air of supremacy about him might not have made the mistake he was about to make. He might have realized that he was severely outnumbered in a hostile territory. Then again, he might have just done it anyway simply because he believed with every fiber of his being that pureblood wizards were the most dominant force in the world, magical or otherwise.

The wizard pulled on a silver tipped walking stick he held and released a hawthorn wand from the shaft, which he gripped securely in his hand. He brought it to bear on the goblin lord. He held it casually, in a practiced, almost lazy, stance that suggested he had quite a bit of practice at confronting threatening beings and had no qualms about doing so. The look on his face said very clearly what he thought of the goblin host.

"Now see here, beast. The scion of House Malfoy will not stand here while you manhandle proper wizarding folk." The wizard sent a writhering glare towards Miranda. "Some of us know our place better than others. Do not make me use my magic to remind you of yours."

The young wizard, to his credit, did not outwardly show fear when the roar of the battle host replied to him, but Orian could spell it in his pores. The boy practically oozed it.

"Do you expect me to be afraid of your antics, goblin? I am a Malfoy, the purest of purebloods. Magic runs through my veins. If necessary, I will rend your head from your body with that magic. Do not make me do so."

This further outraged the battle host. Several took steps forward, unsheathing their weapons as they did. Orian held up a hand to stop them. He gave the Malfoy wizard an appraising look. "You would draw a wand on a goblin within Gringotts?"

Malfoy didn't hesitate. "And use it if I must."

Orian didn't hesitate either. His free hand crashed into Malfoy's arm faster than the wizard could even consider casting a spell. The wand fell to the floor as he rolled his shoulder, wrapping his arm around Malfoy's and pulling the wizard to him. "One who truly wishes to do battle does not speak of it first. He acts. Consider this a free lesson, wizard. It might prevent you from dying a coward's death."

The blond haired pureblood did not flinch as he was pulled within inches of Orian's face. The pain was evident in his features, but below it, a superior sneer stared back at Orian as clear as day. "Kill me, beast," Malfoy said through clenched teeth. "It will not matter."

"Dreadlord," Miranda said from behind the pair. Her voice was low and placating; though, the edge of worry didn't go missing on the goblin lord's ears. "His Majesty-"

Orian did not listen. Instead, he stared at Malfoy. The young wizard was standing against him. He didn't expect that. He expected the wizards to run like the scared sheep they normally were. This newfound bravery shook him. It challenged every belief he had. Wizards were supposed to be sheep. They always had been. The larger magical community did not interfere in their lives for that reason alone. Why would beings like fae and vampires care what foolish pursuits entertained mortals? They were not subject to the whims of humanity like goblins so often were. Humans were not threats.

This wizard could be a threat simply because he was brave. Stupid, yes, but brave.

He looked from the wizard's face to the wand lying useless on the floor. With a shrug of his shoulder, he threw the wizard away.

Malfoy stumbled and fell to the ground several meters away from the goblin and the wand.

Orian's sword flashed and crashed down on the wand. The wood splintered and shattered under the strength of goblin steel, emitting only the tiniest spark in protest. On the white marble beneath the wand, a black scorch mark appeared. The great sword had chipped the stone.

Orian kicked the wand shards over to the wizard, ignoring the gasps from the humans crowded at the door.

This time, Malfoy did react negatively. The color drained from his face. His eyes watered as he stared at the pieces of his wand. "Wh-what?" he asked dumbly, every trace of bravery suddenly broken.

Orian felt a wave of satisfaction. This was the way he remembered wizards: cowards who were reliant on their little sticks. They did not know true power. The battle host roared once more, and now, the wizards truly did quake. None tried to wave their wands again.

"Pathetic. Wizards as a whole have treated my race like bugs beneath them for too long." He raised his sword over his head. "That ends now!" He pointed the blade at the cowering Malfoy. "You have drawn a wand on a goblin within Gringotts, sovereign soil of the Goblin Nation. I hold your life forfeit." And the goblin might have acted on his proclamation had it not been for the…

_BANG!_

The explosion rocketed through the bank, throwing the magically sealed doors open in a burst of flame and force that knocked both wizards and goblins from their feet. Only Orian and a few others managed to stay standing. The powerful goblin lord had not even stumbled.

A few seconds passed while the smoke cleared. No one said a word. The silence was tangible, broke only by scattered coughs. The goblins recovered quicker than the humans. Soon, the entire battle host was back on their feet with their weapons drawn. Finally, the smoke began to open. Rays of sunlight passed through the doorway, cascading across the smoke in hazy waves of broken light. Orian used his free hand to shield his eyes while holding the great sword ready in his other.

"Ready!" he shouted, his roaring voice snapping at the warriors. The battle host clung their armor and swords as one in response, the perfect cry of practiced discipline and deadly ferocity.

Thirteen wizards stepped out of the smoke in a crescent formation. All were wearing unspeakable uniforms that were badly burnt and covered in various types of gore. In the center of the crescent walked another figure wearing the grey uniform of an Azkaban inmate. His long, stringy black hair hung past his shoulders in oily tassels. His green eyes glowed with a fury that was clearly only barely contained. The temperature in the room seemed to drop as he appeared. Wizards back away in shock. Even some of the goblins shook at the cold stare with which he looked across the bank.

Orian did not know what trick the wizards were playing. All he knew was that they had gone too far. Now, they had directly assaulted Gringotts, a goblin fortress. He could not let such an affront stand. It was an insult to the Goblin Nation.

"_MORID-" _he started, but the battle charge stopped on his lips as a light struck him in the chest and flung him on his back.

For a moment he did not remember how to act. It had been so long since he had been forced down against his will. It had never been by a human. But that wasn't the worst of it. He had felt the power in the blast, the contained and controlled force of a single act of will. It wasn't a wizard's spell. It was pure magic. Still, Orian Throathammer was a goblin warrior. He sprang to his feet without the aid of his hands and charged the scrawny wizard and his guards.

Miranda stepped gracefully between him and his prey, successfully routing his charge as he stopped in his tracks for fear of hurting her, an irrational thought for a warrior. Without looking at him, she approached the unspeakables.

The wizard in the center nodded as she approached and the war wizards parted to allow her to pass. She walked within a meter of him, stopped, and dropped to one knee. She drew her wand and laid it at his feet.

"Your Majesty," she started, "I live to serve."

Orian almost dropped his sword at Miranda's words. This scrawny, emaciated man was their king! The Heir of House Emrys! Then, as if an invisible hand was guiding him, he was overcome by a strange compulsion that could only be one thing. Inexplicably, the High Lord of the Goblin Nation, second only to the First Lord of the Moridunum, gave into the rising instinct his blood called to and took a knee before a human wizard, one capable of drawing upon the purest of power and hurling it easier than most wizards used spells. Bowing his head, the great goblin, the Hammer of the Orcs, offered his sword, the sword that never left his person, to the spot of marble in front of him. There, he let it lie.

"Hail the King!" he said.

Slowly, goblin after goblin followed (even their lesser cousins) until only the humans were left standing. They gave their weapons into service of their lord and entrusted that he would protect them while they were not armed. They did what few goblins in their lives were able required to do. They placed their honor on the very existence of a single being. The tied themselves to a human.

_May all of Moridunum rise._

* * *

Harry Potter looked out across the kneeling goblins. The woman at his feet reached for his right hand, took it in hers and kissed the knuckles.

"Your Majesty, your subjects are assembled. Your battle host awaits your commands."

Harry's mind raced. Since the unspeakables had revived him, fed him pepper-up potion, and carted him off to Gringotts, information had been squeezed into his brain. He did not know whom it was from or what was giving it to him, but he did know it was for him and him alone, and he did know what it meant.

He could not claim to be a wizard anymore. That would have been too simple of a description. He wasn't even sure he was entirely human, much less a wizard. Within him, there were wizard parts, but there existed other parts as well, parts he had never noticed before, parts that had been hidden from him. He knew from the information being crammed into his skull that this should not have happened. Someone had purposefully bound these parts away from him. Someone had hidden his heritage willing, and that could not be allowed to stand.

Harry looked at the woman holding his hand. In her eyes, he could see the fierce devotion, the admiration, and even the love, the love for a king she had only dreamed of meeting. Through those eyes, he got to know her, to feel her emotions, to live her memories, and to understand her convictions. Before now, she had served the Goblin Nation as an aide, a human amongst beings of great power. Until now, she had not been able to fully call any place in the world her own, but Harry had given her that. Her purpose was to serve the First Lord of the Moridunum, and she would do so with such passion that the history books would remember her.

And then he looked past her to the kneeling goblins and something in him changed, yet another change in a long line of changes he had experienced that day. This was his army. These were his subjects, his to protect and serve. Someone had dared to hide him from them. Harry Potter tightened his hands into fists.

"Moridunum," he said, not in the least bit afraid that they would not listen, "you have waited too long to reclaim what is yours. Wizards have held their wands over your cousins and blocked your path to the surface. This shall not continue."

Harry turned to Miranda. "Send a message to the Ministry. They will surrender or die."

* * *

Deep within the Ministry of Magic, locked behind many doors and protected by dozens of hastily mobilized aurors. Albus Dumbledore felt a chill go down his spine and had a terrible sense of foreboding. Something bad was about to happen.

"Cornelius," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Minister of Magic looked up from his desk. The senior ministry officials present also turned at the Headmaster's beckon. "Yes, Dumbledore?" the little man asked.

"We must brace ourselves."

It did not take the famous seer blood of the Dumbledore family to make them hear the truth behind his words.

**A/N: Thoughts? I love them, love them, love them. Please take the time to leave one.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all. I am but a mortal quaking before the immortality of her idea.**

"_We could not fight the devil and the demons he commanded no more than we could fight the dark god that they served without question. We all died that day, even me. It is why my ghost haunts this place in this life and the next."_

_Auror Captain Alastor Moody_, _Enticing the Dragon_

**Chapter Six**

Harry slept for ten hours and did not dream a single dream. When he woke, Miranda stood near his bed, waiting patiently.

The Gringotts goblins had furnished him a room they kept on hand for visiting dignitaries. It was large and spacious with a massive four-poster bed done in plush red. Light poured in from windows that did not actually view the outside but were charmed to make the viewer believe they did. It reminded him of Hogwarts. A memory he did not want.

He didn't want to remember anything about that place and the people he had called his friends. The sting of betrayal was too painful.

"Good morning, Your Majesty. Clothes and armor have been prepared for you," Miranda greeted with a warm smile and a curtsy.

Harry looked at the beautiful brunette. Her hair was looser today than before. It fell freely in waves that went to mid-back. She wore similar clothes, a white button-up and a black skirt. Harry felt a stirring inside him when he looked at her. The way she stared at him, the way her eyes lit up with adoration when he was around, all but calmed the anger raging within him; yet, that anger was replaced by another feeling that was just as potent. He could not help but enjoy the attentions of a woman. He was, after all, a man who had been locked in prison for ten years. He had never had a girlfriend, and his hormones were making up for it.

He did not realize that his eyes were lingering in certain spots as they traced the curve of her body, stopping for at each button of her shirt. He blinked and shook his head.

"Are you well, sire?"

Harry's eyes darted to her face. She was staring at him with a look of devoted adoration. Her eyes promised to do anything to please him. Her full lips parted slightly under his scrutiny as though she would speak again. He did not give her the chance.

"Very much," he said, rising from the bed, noting as he did that he had been bathed and cleaned. His clothes were gone. He stood naked. Who had undressed him? When?

Miranda's eyes widened. A deep blush tinted her cheeks.

Harry's stomach clenched in knots. "Forgive me," he whispered, pushing the disappointment from his voice. He grabbed one of the bed sheets and pulled, bringing it around his waist and tying it off.. It shouldn't be a surprise that a woman acted that way when looking at him. It's not like he had been good with girls before Azkaban. Add on ten years of prison driven emaciation, and he couldn't blame anyone for being disturbed. His cheeks grew warm, the cold power that had covered him yesterday chased away by shame.

Miranda shook her head and pointed behind Harry. He turned, following her finger, to a mirror that hung on the wall. He stared into the glass.

It wasn't him that looked back. Well, it was his face, but the body beneath it wasn't his. It couldn't be. It was tall, muscled, and sculpted. He shouldn't look like that! He hadn't looked like that ever. Just a few hours earlier he had been a malnourished convict with stringy, greasy hair! Now, he was a bronze Adonis with long, full black hair that looked as if it belonged to a veela and not a wizard. The only thing that hadn't changed was his eyes. They were as green and vibrant as ever.

"What happened?" he whispered and turned back to Miranda.

Miranda blinked, cleared her throat, and managed to recover. "Forgive me, lord. I knew that this could happen. The moment you ascended, your body had to change to compensate the power going through it. Only, I expected that to happen before you came to us. The magic should have altered you the first time you rested."

"Well, other than a brief moment of unconsciousness at the prison, I did not rest until last night. I had to stay awake to escape the prison and fight my way here," Harry told her simply, casually mentioning the magical feats that should have been impossible.

Miranda's eyes widened again. "Sire, that is ridiculous! No one is capable of going so long without rest.

The temperature in the room dropped, and the witch knew she had made a mistake. An icy chill blew between them. Harry let out a low growl. His skin rippled as the muscles beneath it tensed. "You accuse me of lying?" he asked, his voice low and full of venom. The magically induced light from the windows flickered.

Miranda took a step back, suddenly very afraid of the man in front of her. She should have known better. She had seen him blow through the magically impervious doors at Gringotts. She had seen his magic knock the mighty Orian Throathammer to the ground. But she had not understood. Until then, the thought of a king who had been repressed in Azkaban had, on some level, disgusted her. The Moridunum needed a strong leader, not one who had been stunted before having a chance to mature.

In that moment she knew better, and that knowledge terrified her. Her magic responded against her will as he stared at her, the storm in his green eyes so intense that it alone could have forced her to her knees. She backed away until she hit the wall.

"M-my lord, I-"

"Do not speak," Harry snapped, cutting her off. "I did not give you permission to speak." His voice was laced with the power of command and authority that he should not have known how to access. He raised a finger and pointed it at her. "I have been accused of lying too often to let you do so. No one will ever question my honesty again. Do you understand?"

Miranda nodded. She didn't trust herself to do anything else, because in that moment, her body simply crawled with desire. She knew it was a reaction to his strength, but that didn't change anything. Between her legs, she could feel a wetness building uncomfortably between her legs. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her thin bra. A sudden longing boiled in her chest. Butterflies fluttered in her chest. Her breathing sped up, excited and inconsistent.

Harry's eyes drifted down to her chest, focusing on the outline of her hardened nipples. A smile crossed his lips though it did little to warm the coldness of his features. "You are excited," he said, a laugh in his voice. "I admit, my education on the female body is limited, but I do remember picking up a few things from the speculations of my dorm-mates."

He took a step towards her. Miranda tensed in anticipation. Her body yearned to go to him. Her instincts had regressed to the more animalistic part of her nature. The desire she felt then was just that: bestial. But behind all that, in the place where logic still maintained a feeble grasp, her mind screamed for her to refuse. It told her that the magic was affecting her. To give into such a desire would cheapen anything she could one day have with the king. It would make her a whore, a slut.

His slut. The thought made her even wetter.

Harry closed the gap between them. His shoved her hard against the wall. Pain swept up her back, but it was quickly replaced by other situations. Any resistance caved. She wanted this. She could feel his erection against her stomach as he pressed his body against hers. The famous Boy-Who-Lived, a childhood hero, leaned down to her ear. His tongue swept over the edge, flicking against the skin. A shudder went down her body. His hands clasped either side of her waist and flexed against the feeling of her in them. She gasped at his strength.

"Please…" she heard herself beg.

His hands found the buttons of her shirt. He fumbled for a moment and gave up, deciding to rip the shirt open. His muscles very flexed in exertion as the fabric ripped, revealing the creamy flesh beneath and the lacy white bra. She gasped. Unable to hold back any longer, she found his lips with her own, initiating a deep kiss that made her toes curl. Waves of magic spread off his body, filling hers, driving her to push harder.

Then it stopped. The magic ended, and she felt her senses return to her. The foggy haze of lust cleared. What happened? She couldn't remember. She only remembered… No. She hadn't stopped it. He had. Harry had ended the magic on purpose. And now he was standing there, holding her against the wall.

They stood in silence. Minutes passed filled only by the sounds of her deep breathing and his calm, collected breathes. A tiny whisper of a voice spoke to her in the silence. "I will kill them, Miranda. I will destroy them all for doing this to me and daring to call me a liar. You do not know what I have seen and heard, what was done to me. Any society that can stand idly by while such torture is condoned is a stain, and that stain shall be burned from this earth and their ashes salted so that nothing shall grow in their place."

Miranda was too afraid to respond. Her shirt in tatters, she leaned back against the wall, lost in the endless void of his gaze. Suddenly, she felt very small.

* * *

Dumbledore sighed. The Minister of Magic was an idiot. Why would anyone think the best way to respond to a threat would be to go running madly into enemy territory without any intelligence on the enemy's capabilities? An utterly ludicrous idea. Yet, that was precisely what Fudge ordered his men to do the very moment the report had come that the goblins had attacked Draco Malfoy and thrown him and several other wizards from Gringotts.

Dumbledore attempted to point out that the witness reports stated that the goblins had not actually attacked so much as simply appeared in the bank and sealed the doors. The Malfoy heir had been the first to actually attack, violating the ancient treaty that protected the bank as sovereign territory of the goblin nation.

"Do I look like I care, Dumbledore?" the Minister had responded. "Gringotts is a wizarding institution. We will not have those beasts think they harm decent magical folk without repercussion."

Arguing with the Minister at that point would have only made the matters worse. Fudge was terrified that Harry Potter would destroy his precious Ministry and his reputation. The man clang to power, but more than that, he clang to the power he did not have to work hard for. Fudge had done little real work since getting elected. The majority of the tasks that should belong to the Minister of Magic were delegated to a board of undersecretaries that were over paid and as bigoted as the influential families who held Fudge in the palm of their hand.

Dumbledore watched from the special spell-screen in the Minister's office as a team of thirty aurors approached the goblin fortress that acted as a bank for the wizarding world and knew that those men and women quite possibly marched to their deaths. The Headmaster shook his head.

"Cornelius, I beg you, end this fallacy. The aurors will not be able to withstand a goblin battle host."

The Minister scoffed. "Dumbledore, you give them too much credit. Thirty of our finest duelist against a bunch of stunted creatures who don't even have wands? The goblins will surrender before the fight even begins, you wait and see."

Wait. Did the Minister think that the goblin warriors were the same one who worked in the bank? How could a man be so ignorant of the larger magical world around him and get elected? Dumbledore could understand how the general population did not know about the true nature of the magical community, but the Minister of Magic should know better! It was the Ministry who authorized the youth of Britain to be left significantly uneducated on the subject of the outside world. Supposedly, it ensured that few ever left the wizarding world for the larger opportunities awaiting those who ventured outside it. With a few exceptions, it had worked. But this time, that ignorance could get several good wizards and witches killed and start a war in earnest against a foe wizarding Britain was not prepared to face.

"Minister, you've got to recall the aurors. Those are not the goblins you think they-"

Dumbledore didn't finish. His stomach rose into his throat at the image that filled the spell-screen. It was too late. An auror was stepping out from the rest and stepping up to the doors. He read the name that appeared above the auror's image. His eyebrows rose. Perhaps the Minister was wiser than he thought.

* * *

Orian watched the wizards approach from one of the observation points above the bank lobby. They did not move in any particular formation. Confident in their presumed superior abilities, they casually approached the doors of the bank, or what the goblins had managed to be replace in the eleven hours since the knew king had destroyed them.

"Arrogant aren't they?" said the voice of the First Lord of the Moridinum from beside Orian.

The goblin lord grunted. "All wizards seem to have that tendency." He met the Boy-Who-Lived's eyes with a look just as intense as the chilling green gaze that watched him. "It would do well for you to remember that, Majesty."

Harry didn't reply for moment. His eyes searched the goblin lord before they filled with a glint of genuine mirth. The wizard threw his head back and laughed. The affect on the battle host below them was instantaneous. The reassurance of Harry's calm confidence bolstered their resolve and morale. Subtle waves of encouraging magic wafted from the wizard and warmed them.

"I shall do my best, Lord Orian; though, I hope you will be there to knock me around a bit should I forget it."

Orian smiled, a rather grotesque action for a goblin considering the shape of their faces. Yes, the new king might do well.

Then, the aurors made their move.

"Hey, you lot in there," cried a witch with striking bubble gum hair. "Open up in the name of the Ministry of Magic."

On Orian's other side, Miranda turned and faced the goblin lord and her king. "My lords?"

Harry nodded. Orian seconded the gesture.

Miranda cleared her throat, cast a charm with her wand, and called back: "The goblin nation does not recognize the organization you refer to. The Ministry of Magic is considered an illegal government with no authority to discuss any agreements or issue any orders to the peoples of the goblin nation."

The aurors looked amongst themselves, clearly confused. Most drew their wands. Others shuffled about, already bored with the exchange they felt to be beneath them. Orian frowned at their obvious lack of discipline. There would be little resistance.

"Listen up, lass," called out a severely scarred wizard with an eye that roamed around and around without any discernable rhythm. "We are the Ministry of Magic. You lot signed a treaty with us and swore magical oaths. Now, I can tell you are a witch by your voice. Surely you don't want to get mixed up in this. Why don't you come and open the door?"

Harry snorted a laugh. Orian barely held one back himself. "See what I mean, lord?"

Miranda cleared her throat again, ignoring their side conversation. "By order of His Majesty Harry, the Lord Merlin, by the Grace of God King of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, King of the Franks, Right Duke of Normandy, First Lord of the Moridunum, and Prince of Corinth, the Ministry of Magic is hereby ordered to disband until such a time as the King sees fit to restore it. His Majesty's Royal Army will enforce this directive. Aurors, stand down and remove the uniforms of your station."

The wizard with the spinning eye cast an unsure glance over his shoulder to another wizard that stood taller than the rest. The darker skinned man shrugged and held up his wand. The wizard with the spinning eye followed.

"Aurors, ready to fire!" he called out.

Orian drew his sword and called out to the battle host in the lobby below them. "Moridunum!" Then he brought the sword against his breastplate.

Without speaking, the battle host did the same.

Spells flew at the doors of the bank and barely made a dent against the superior magic that held them closed. The aurors looked down at their wands and readied to fire again. They did not have to.

Slowly, the doors to Gringotts creaked open as if guided by an invisible hand.

"That's more like it," the bubblegum-haired witch called out. She and the others strode forward confidently. Only the wizard with the spinning eye stayed back. The eye had stopped and was focused on the dark shadow that was beyond the doors, then his other eye – a normal one – filled with panic.

"No!" shouted a voice from the aurors.

Harry froze. The voice was deeper, louder, but he knew it. The sound resonated him almost as strongly as the magic that flowed through him.

The pink-haired auror's head snapped to the group of aurors behind her. A wizard stepped out, walked past her, and stepped up to the open doors, not bothering to pay the armed host any mind.

"Harry, I just want to talk to you!"

Harry felt as though he had been slapped. He traced the lines of the wizards face. The pale skin. The tall, lanky body. The freckles. The red hair.

"Ron?"

**A/N: The response to this has been fair, but the story has reached the turning point. Here, the real action begins and things start to develop quicker. Are many people actually reading this and enjoying it? Should I keep going?**


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